


Silent as Snow

by CandidCantrix



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Adoribull - Freeform, Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Rite of Tranquility, Tranquil Dorian, mentions of blood magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-03
Updated: 2016-09-03
Packaged: 2018-08-12 19:06:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7945756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CandidCantrix/pseuds/CandidCantrix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"It's a simple decision, to join the Inquisition. Not an escape, the way he'd originally planned, but he leaves nonetheless. "</i>
</p><p>In which Dorian comes to Haven as a Tranquil.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Silent as Snow

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos to the fantastic [Ginogollum](ginogollum.tumblr.com) and her multiple great illustrations! The artwork is posted on her tumblr [here](http://ginogollum.tumblr.com/post/149877060658/his-staff-is-little-more-than-a-walking-stick) as well as in the fic.

It's a simple decision, to join the Inquisition. Not an escape, the way he'd originally planned, but he leaves nonetheless.

He has no issues with his treatment; the room his father moved him to is perfectly acceptable. He thinks he might have hated it, once, found it a gilded cage and a poor excuse for an apology, but without those associations, it's sufficient for everything he needs. There's a bed, a bathroom, and slaves to help him recover physically after the ritual.

He's also aware that the decor is in the fashionable Eastern province style. He deems it inconsequential. As it is, no velvet drapes can hide the truth: his father has no use for a Tranquil heir.

The information on the Venatori, though, he doesn't need magic to share that. All his original reasons for planning the trip have faded into points on a list - to play the hero, to save lives, to save Tevinter - but one thing still seems clear. He has a place in the south; he has none in Tevinter.

His bag is still where he shoved it in the back of his old wardrobe, right before the slave knocked on the door. Right before the magebane.

He leaves. There's no-one on guard to stop him from going.

\- - -

He's late to Redcliffe. Not too late to be useless, since he sees plenty of the Venatori and their Elder One, but late enough that he judges it necessary to run to Skyhold. It proves wise; as it is, seven Venatori pin him down right outside the doors to Haven.

His staff is little more than a walking stick now. One Venatori falls back when he swings it - straight as a pendulum - into the man's face, but there's already another on his left. The world blurs with the whirl of the staff. Someone gets in a slash across his chest and he stumbles. Another pricks his side. Pain is a far-off thing these days, but he's aware when his lungs go tight, when his feet seem to stop gripping the ground.

 

 

None of it echoes in his head. There's no desperation, only quiet resolution. Dorian is the eye of the storm.

The battle is lost when a Venatori blasts his staff right out of his hand.

"I need assistance!" he calls, then lets the exhaustion and budding blood loss take him to his knees. There are no more ways to fight that would do any good. His information will go unheard, it seems.

He stares into the red-shot eyes of his executioner.

There's a shout and a clash of swords to the side. A ball of fire crashes into the Venatori standing over him and throws him to the side. Dorian doesn't move. Even if he had the physical strength, he has no more ability to fight than before. The newcomers will save him, or they won't.

Finally, the noise drops to the quiet drip of blood, and someone grips Dorian around the shoulders. He allows himself to be pulled to his feet.

The man supporting him - a soldier, by the bearing. He catches the faintest scent of lyrium, and since this is no mage, he must be a Templar. He's found the Inquisition, then.

He used to like the smell of lyrium, he remembers. He still knows the words he associated with it - storms, sharpness, and ozone - but he can't remember why any of those things would be enjoyable. He thinks to test the words on his tongue, but doesn't.

There's a dwarf behind the Templar. From all he's heard on the road, she must be the Herald.

"My name is Dorian Pavus," he says. People respond better to acquaintances. "I come to deliver a warning."

\- - -

He's among the last to file out of the Chantry and into the long line stretching into the snow and trees. Ahead of him, people are shove the healthy aside, pass the injured to strong-backed guards, and drag the few screaming children out of the crush by their forearms. With so many fighting to be first out, no-one pays attention to the one person who doesn't care at all.

His vision goes grey with flashes of colour - like magelights, like the balls of light he made as a child, though he can't remember why he made something with no practical purpose - and sounds fade, and finally he finds himself toppling to his knees again.

Snow soaks into his trousers. The cold doesn't cut him like it might have done once, but he's aware of his legs going numb.

"Hey!" says a voice above him.

He manages to lift his head. The looming figure is unmistakably a Qunari. It seems likely to be a hallucination, until the Qunari crouches down and starts inspecting the wound on his chest. The pads of his fingers are warm.

The Qunari raises his head and yells, "Stitches!"

Dorian follows the Qunari's gaze, but he's not sure what he's looking at. He makes out a darker grey smudge against the rest of the grey that could be a man, bent over something.

"Little busy, Chief!" calls someone.

It's not worth struggling past the draining feeling in his limbs. He lowers his head again.

"Shit," says the Qunari. He grabs something out of a pack at his side. "Looks like you're stuck with me. You're lucky me and my boys were watching for stragglers."

"Hold still," he says, and winds some sort of cloth round Dorian's chest and over the wound, while Dorian stays absolutely, perfectly still.

"Those are some fancy robes," the Qunari says, in a tone that sounds almost casual. He ties a knot in the cloth. "Didn't realise we had any Vint mages around here."

As Dorian isn't a mage, he ignores the statement.

"So what're you doing in the Inquisition?" the Qunari asks.

A question. It requires an answer.

"I came to warn them about the Elder One," says Dorian.

The Qunari's single eye stares into him. He can probably hear something different in Dorian's voice. Dorian knows he used to alter it more, lowering the pitch or raising the volume or speeding up his words depending on the circumstances. He can't remember the nuances well enough to mimic it, and so far he's had no reason to try. The southerners he met on the road thought he was a simpleton, without a Chantry brand to prove otherwise, and he benefited more than once from innkeepers who thought he needed taking care of.

"Huh," the Qunari says, after a moment, and goes back to his injury. "No offense, but your timing could use some work."

He pulls the bandage tight around Dorian's chest. Dorian feels the sudden crush, but sees no reason to flinch.

"Pretty tough for a noble. That didn't hurt?" says the Qunari.

"I do not feel pain as you do," Dorian explains.

That really makes the  Qunari stare, but any other questions are cut off by the arrival of another man. The man is carrying healing supplies, and gives Dorian an elfroot potion. It greatly improves the condition of his body. He's handed off to another person to be braced as they continue down the trail.

He walks. It seems more logical than dying.

\- - -

Once they arrive in Skyhold, he immediately establishes himself in the library. He has no further use as a fighter or a message bearer, so research is the only remaining option. Libraries were a place of comfort once - the Minrathous Circle, with its walls of books like barriers -  and though the bookshelves are now simply places to store books, there is what passes for satisfaction at being in his proper place. The presence of the Tranquil Helisma is a further point of recommendation. It's efficient to deal with someone who understands and accepts his reasoning.

The Inquisitor arrives not long after he's installed himself there.

"I see you've settled in!" she says, after a pause.

He waits, but that appears to be the end of the sentence.

"Yes."

"...right," she says, and stares at him for a few seconds. Dorian looks back with all the patience in the world.

"So," she says, and shakes herself, glances down, then looks back. "So, I was hoping to find out a bit more about you. I never came across many Tranquils before the Inquisition. Or Tevinters, for that matter.  Cullen didn't think you got the two together."

Cullen is the ex-Templar, he's learned.

"There are a number of Tranquils in Tevinter," he explains. "The majority were made so for political reasons."

His answer is inadequate, it seems, because it sparks several more questions on the workings of Tevinter, on the Chantry and its nobles in particular. The Inquisitor fires off questions one after another, darting from topic to topic. She touches on his own Tranquility, but she seems more interested in how it feels than how it happened.

"It must be lonely, being the only Tevinter here," she says, finally.

"I do not feel loneliness," he reminds her.

"Ah," she says, and pauses, then, "so you wouldn't be interested in getting to know more of the people here? Varric - you might have seen him, the dwarf who's usually in the main hall? He's arranging some sort of get together in the tavern. I thought you might like to get out for a bit."

Perhaps his explanation was unclear, if she's missed that he doesn't _like_ to do anything. But the invitation appears to have been an instruction. He understands instructions. He used to disobey his father's out of principle, he recalls, but he has no idea what the principle was.

It's really much simpler to obey.

\- - -

"Ugh," says Sera. "Why'd you have to bring another creepy one? Can't we get some normal people round here?"

"Be nice. We should have Blackwall, Varric and Cassandra along soon," says the Inquisitor. "I'll go get a round."

She leaves, and Sera turns to Dorian. "Well, at least you're not a demon."

"Yes," says Dorian.

For some reason, this infuriates her; she starts muttering about creepy-eyed things that should stay in libraries, and jumps up from the table to follow the Inquisitor into the crowd. He's left with the spirit, Cole, and the Qunari, Iron Bull.

Dorian gazes at a spot on the table where there's a sticky sheen of spilled _something_. The Iron Bull, across the table, coughs and occupies himself with his ale.

"You're not like the ones in the Spire," says Cole, breaking the silence. "The ending's the same, but the beginning was different. Ripped, not severed."

Dorian thinks on the words. "The Chantry makes Tranquils with lyrium. I was made Tranquil with blood magic."

He sees the Iron Bull straighten on the words 'blood magic'. He puts down his glass.

"Blood magic, huh?" he says.

Cole's hat flops to one side as he tilts his head.

"Magebane sticking in the throat. Hands, hands pushing down. Careful, Father tells them. Don't fight, he tells you. Screaming," Cole says. Pauses. "All is silent."

Dorian considers.

"Yes," he says.

It hangs over the table.

"I didn't know how to help the others," Cole says. He leans forward. "Too lost to see, who am I? But I see it now. I can bring the two pieces together."

Cole shuffles nearer, biting his bottom lip, eyes fixed somewhere in the centre of Dorian's forehead. "Kid, what -" says the Iron Bull, from across the table, but Dorian doesn't move. He doesn't turn his head when Cole's hand comes up and rests on his temple. Cole's fingers are rough at the tips.

There's - something.

It's like opening his eyes, only he hadn't noticed closing them. It starts with a pulse of voices and candlelight and the thick smell of ale, and then he realises it's all real, it all - it all connects in his head, and then -

"The Fade, you -" he gasps. "I can feel the Fade. I can feel!"

A few heads nearby turn towards him. A couple of Inquisition scouts at the next table frown. There's a decent amount of background noise in the tavern, but he was quite loud. They're all still staring - wait. He touches his cheeks, his stinging eyes. Probably staring because he's in tears, yes? And oh, he remembers this.

"I -" He breathes in, like he can inhale more of the magic, of the feeling. "I'm embarrassed."

It's terrible. He wants to crawl under the table and disappear, and while he's at it, fix his moustache, his hair - dear Maker, he wants it, how had he forgotten what it was like to want something? How had he labelled shame as simply bad, this feeling that tugged at the chest ten different ways? He could drink it in!

The Bull's eyes have narrowed in confusion.

"I'm embarrassed!" he tells the Bull, like saying it out loud makes it real, "and - happy?" His mouth is stretching into a grin all by itself, tugging at muscles that haven't been used in months. It aches, and the ache is so good.

"And -" and looking at the Bull's raised eyebrow makes him wonder, about what he might have done if they'd met when Dorian still had his desires, and well. The shame rushes in like a landslide, but he's too giddy to be cut off, so he chokes out - "and, and I want. Things."

He laughs, and takes a swig of the beer.

"This is vile!" he says, and knocks it back in one amazing flood down his throat. "It's dreadful! I love it!"

"Kid," says Bull, looking from Dorian to Cole and back again, "what did you do?"

The Inquisitor strides over to the table, two pint mugs in each hand and her eyes narrowed. "What's going on?"

"He cured me!" Dorian tells her, and can't stop laughter from bubbling out at the end.

One of the newcomers assembled behind the Inquisitor - Seeker Cassandra, he remembers, because that's not a profile he'd forget - stares at him like he's pulled Andraste out of his arse. "You - Inquisitor, this isn't the Tranquil you spoke of?"

"Not anymore!" says Dorian, and takes another swig of the beer.  He grins even as he splutters half of it back out. "Oh, the Minrathous Circle is going to do somersaults!"

But Cole's leaning forward again, fingers trembling. "I put him back in the song. But I'm sorry, I don't think I can hold him there."

It takes a second for the sentence to break through Dorian's renewed fascination with - well, everything - but when it does, he nearly stops breathing. His skin goes cold. "What do you mean, you can't hold me?"

"I can't make the connection firm," says Cole. "I think I'm too much in this world to be in that one."

 Dorian grabs his hand. "No!" he says, "No, please don't, please don't take it -"

And then, his panic flickers out. The sensation rolls over him - for a second, like emptiness - then a deep and unshakable calm.

Across from him, Cole looks down, while the others stare. The Bull's face is almost as expressionless as his own, apart from a certain something around the eye. "I'm sorry," says Cole. "I couldn't help."

"I do not require it," says Dorian.

"No," agrees Cole. "Never need anything, never again."

The Inquisitor slowly lowers herself down onto a stool, like she thinks it might disappear out from under her. She drops the mugs onto the table with a thunk. "What," she says, pronouncing each word with care, "just happened, exactly?"

"Cole briefly lifted my Tranquility," says Dorian. "Now it has returned."

The Inquisitor peers at him. "How is that even possible?"

"There were rumours of a cure for Tranquility," says Seeker Pentaghast, taking her own seat next to the Inquisitor's to examine him. "That's what started the mage rebellion."

"So he's not gone wrong for good, then?" says Sera from behind him, and Dorian's not sure if he's physically capable of being startled now, but if he is, having her face appear over his shoulder might do it.

The Iron Bull is still staring hard at him. His hand is clenched around his glass.

"I don't know. You're sure you can't do it again, Cole?" asks the Inquisitor.

"Singing, shifting, almost but not. The gate shuts." He shakes his head. "I'm sorry. I'm not a bridge."

"I... think that's a no."

Seeker Pentaghast turns to her. "Curing a Tranquil is not something to do lightly, in any event."

"Well, I don't see that it matters, at the moment, if we don't know how to do it." The Inquisitor looks at Dorian. "But let me know if it happens again."

He nods. The table falls silent.

Then Warden Blackwall drops into the empty seat next to him and takes a gulp from the mug on the table, before lowering it to frown at everyone. "What did I miss?"

\- - -

At first he gets the occasional stare, but he's gradually forgotten as the group talks among themselves. Dorian sits where the Inquisitor positioned him, and drinks the drink she gave him, and does not ask for another one.

He stays until the Inquisitor tells him he can go. At least, when she leans over and says, "You don't have to stay here if you're not comfortable," he interprets it as a command. He ignores the way the group all untense as he stands and heads outside.

The sky is dark and filled with snowflakes. There's no-one in the courtyard but him, and the snow absorbs any  traces of a echo. All is quiet.

"Hey," calls the voice of the Iron Bull from behind. He stops and turns.

The Iron Bull is standing in front of the tavern doorway, backlit by the firelight and candles inside. He's a silhouette in the snow, and his face is in shadow. Dorian can't make out his expression.

"About the thing back there..." the Iron Bull starts, then stops, and lets out a small huff of air. "Huh, you really did switch right back, didn't you?"

"Yes. I did."

The Iron Bull takes a step forward, and now Dorian can see the unscarred eye, examining Dorian's face.

A snowflake lands on Dorian's nose. He makes no effort to brush it off, but it draws his attention to the goosepimples on his arms. He's unsure of the purpose of the Iron Bull's inspection, but much longer could leave him significantly impaired.

"Did you want to ask something of me?" he prompts. He'll stay outside, if it's required, but it doesn't seem the best course of action.

The Iron Bull hesitates, then steps back. "No, never mind. I was thinking - anyway, I guess it doesn't matter."

Perhaps this is where having his previous feelings would be useful. Perhaps his previous self wouldn't find the Iron Bull's actions so confusing.

"Then I will take my leave," he hazards, in the lack of a clear dismissal.

"Yeah, sure, you go back," says the Iron Bull. "But - hey, Dorian? Take care of yourself, okay?"

It's a vague instruction, but nothing contradictory to the ones he's already received. More to the point, it settles the Iron Bull as unlikely to be a hindrance, despite being Qunari.

"I will try to do so," he says, before turning to walk back through the snow.

\- - -

The library window looks out onto the courtyard. Sometimes he sees Cassandra wander across, or Cole crouched by one of the injured, or Varric coming out of the tavern.

Sometimes, the Iron Bull is in the courtyard. He's usually sparring with one of his Chargers. Dorian can grant him his skill as a warrior; he understands the theory, and the Bull's strength and accuracy are far above average. But he watches the Bull's back twist as he powers through a stroke and he thinks he's missing something, like maybe he'd have found something there to appreciate before. He doesn't understand it now. It's all just muscles, albeit efficient ones.

It's of little consequence. None of the people he sees come to the library, and he never goes down to them.

\- - -

Until the day the Inquisitor visits his alcove once again.

"I've... got something for you," she says. "It's a letter, from your father."

\- - -

The road to Redcliffe is not a short one. Half of it runs over hills and the rest runs into mud, and the entire country appears to be sprinkled with bears. Dorian travelled, when he was younger, was taken by his parents to the ornate stone keeps of Nevarra, but he'd never been outside an urban sprawl before finally leaving Tevinter. He's not sure, but he thinks he'd have considered the countryside equally unnecessary before the ritual.

"We should check the exits," says the Bull as they approach the tavern. The other member of the party is Vivienne. In sum, they have a Qunari who's spent half his life fighting Tevinter and a mage to fight mages. Knowing his father, the Inquisitor's choices are logical.

The Inquisitor smirks. "That door's made of wood. If this goes bad, we can make more exits."

She's the first through it. Dorian follows, and hears the clack of Vivienne's boots and the creak of the Bull on the floorboards behind him.

There's nothing to warn him, then, of what waits inside. There's no gasp from the Inquisitor. She doesn't stop in the doorway. She's never seen his father before, so Dorian walks into the tavern without any indication that the man himself is by the stairs.

Unexpected, but it makes sense. He doesn't comment on it.

His father takes a step forward. "Dorian," he says.

"Father," he answers, without nuance.

He waits, but his father says nothing for a few seconds, then frowns.

"You left," he says. "That wilfulness... I hoped it meant you'd recovered."

"My condition remains unchanged," says Dorian.

His father's expression tightens, goes somehow more brittle. "That much is obvious."

"Inquisitor," he says, turning to her. Dorian recognises the tone as his genuine politeness, not the veiled geniality he slides out around rivals like a bandit playing with a knife. "I thank you for looking after him, but it's time he came back to Tevinter. My house is better equipped to deal with his needs."

"I..." the Inquisitor starts, unsure. "That's Dorian's decision, not mine."

His father pulls himself straighter, even though he's already twice the height of the Inquisitor. "My son is ill, Inquisitor. He doesn't have the capacity to decide."

"I don't think that's entirely true. Dorian?" she says, but before he can answer, the Iron Bull cuts in.

"Er, Boss?" he says, stepping out of his corner. He's frowning. "You know this guy caused the whole Tranquility thing, right?"

The Inquisitor stares at Dorian's father. "What? You - why?" she asks, but his father simply purses his lips, so she turns to Dorian.

"I preferred to sleep with men," Dorian explains. "It was inconvenient. The urges had to be removed."

"Dorian -" says his father, as if there's anything in his statement to be argued, but there isn't, so he closes his mouth again.

"Is this true?" asks the Inquisitor, turning her glare back on his father like the beam of a lighthouse.

His father's expression breaks, just for a second. "Please try to understand -"

"From what I understand, you made your own son a Tranquil for disobedience. Have I got that right?"

"I never intended -" his father starts, then stops. He sighs. It's a familiar, full-bodied thing. The air whistles out, his head turns away from the source of displeasure, his shoulders rise and settle. The sight triggers memories in Dorian's head: after the orgy in Qarinus, after their argument about Dorian's studies, after the results of the ritual became evident. He remembers, but the sight of his father sighing is no more than a bodily function now.

"I did," he says. "And every day I regret it."

He takes a step nearer to the Inquisitor, hands bunching at his sides before smoothing out again. That much is a loss of control.

"Please, Inquisitor," says his father. "My son needs care, not a battlefield. I can send you mages, if that would be useful to you, but let me bring him home."

"I think that should be Dorian's choice, don't you?" She turns to him, face softer. "Go on, Dorian. What do you want?"

He stands caught between them: two sources of authority, both claiming to support his best interests. There are no clear instructions.

"I do not want anything," he reminds her, lost in the empty space of the tavern.

The Inquisitor's face twists. "But you disobeyed him to come here. You must have a preference!"

"I was not forbidden from leaving the house," says Dorian. Perhaps it was implied, but he hasn't been searching for invisible orders. "In the absence of instructions, I went where I would be of use."

"A Tranquil? Of use to the Inquisition?" says his father, sounding choked. "What can you possibly do for them?"

Dorian is about to answer, but the Inquisitor takes it upon herself to jump in.

"How about valuable intelligence on the Venatori? He's told us half of everything we know about their movements. Or his research? I don't understand much, but our arcanist says it's got potential."

His father stares at her. "He does research?"

"I've been told he's to have some of the credit for the vast improvements to the library," says Vivienne, tone mild but grip firm around her staff. "The current cataloguing is almost as good as the system we had back in the Circle."

"Didn't see anyone else trying to get a warning out at Haven," says the Iron Bull.

Dorian closes his mouth. His father's question appears to have been fully answered. He waits for an order anyway, the command to return, but it doesn't come.

Instead, his father bows his head. "Perhaps... Perhaps you have a point. I didn't appreciate..." He smiles, grimly. "It's better, maybe, if he stays."

"Then I think that's settled," says the Inquisitor. "Unless you had anything more to say?" She looks at Dorian, who shakes his head. "Back to Skyhold, then."

His father finally moves as the group starts to file back out of the door; he grabs Dorian's sleeve.

"Forgive me," he says, voice thick. His hand shakes where it's twisted in the fabric. The Inquisitor turns and watches  them from the other side of the doorway, but stays where she is.

"I cannot," says Dorian. "I do not take offense at my situation. Therefore I do not feel wronged, and cannot forgive you." He meets his father's gaze. "My previous self would feel wronged, but he is not here to forgive."

His father takes in a sharp breath and lets go, all at once. His eyes are moist.

With nothing further coming, Dorian drops his arm and follows the Inquisitor out of the building.

\- - -

The journey back starts quietly. Dorian can feel the glances of the other members of the party, but doesn't look away from the road ahead until the Inquisitor drops back next to him.

"Are you okay?" she asks, in an undertone.

Vivienne glances back over her shoulder. "Darling, he's Tranquil. He'll never not be 'okay'," she says. Her expression softens it.

"It is as she says," Dorian answers, when the Inquisitor doesn't look away from him.

"I meant what I said, you know," she says. "We want you helping the Inquisition any way you can."

They continue further along the hillside path.

"Then I would like to make a request," says Dorian.

The Inquisitor looks a little surprised, but otherwise expectant, like with any acquaintance who approached her for a favour. The Iron Bull has focused his gaze on Dorian, narrow-eyed, but it's Vivienne who looks truly suspicious. She, perhaps, has the most understanding of how rare it is for a Tranquil to deem anything worth requesting, save perhaps necessary supplies for their work.

Dorian considers this a necessary supply.

"Go on?" says the Inquisitor, after a few seconds.

"I would like to request permission to research a cure for Tranquility," he says.

Vivienne sucks a breath in through her teeth: noisy, likely deliberately so. The Inquisitor just blinks and says, "You would?"

"You have charged me with helping the Inquisition any way I can. I was a mage of great talent and skill. I believe I would be useful."

"Not selling yourself short there, are you?" says the Iron Bull.

"I do not believe I ever understood the point."

"Well," says the Inquisitor, "if it's just research -"

"Then that alone would be unwise. But if anything comes from it? Potentially disastrous," says Vivienne.

The Inquisitor stares at her. "You don't want the Tranquil cured?"

"What I _want_ is irrelevant," Vivienne says, each word pronounced crisp and cutting. "Surely you've been informed of the incident that started the mage rebellion?"

"Cassandra mentioned something..." the Inquisitor says, then trails off in the face of Vivienne's expression. "I don't know much about it."

"Few do. The details were suppressed, harshly. But every Grand Enchanter received news of the initial discovery, and other snippets emerged here and there. Some gossip, of course, some..." Her mouth purses. "What is clear is this: a Tranquil was sent to Adamant to cure himself, and in doing so, somehow drowned the whole settlement in demons."

The Iron Bull's head jerks towards her. His eyes narrow. "That doesn't sound too good to me, boss."

"But Cole managed to cure Dorian the other day," says the Inquisitor. "I didn't see any demons running round the tavern."

"Well, sure, but I can't tell you what did happen back there," says the Bull.

"If we could fix it, though..." She stares at Dorian. "If we could fix them all. If we took precautions..."

"Many innocent lives were lost at Adamant," says Vivienne. "If you truly wish to pursue this course, my dear, do be _careful_."

\- - -

Dorian peers at a faded line of ancient Common on the page. A C or an O? Unimportant? He might have been able to see in the library, using the light from the window, but he's limited in his new study. He moves the candle inwards till it sheds a circle of light on the page.

He carries his research out in a room beneath Skyhold now, not far from the cells. The walls are very thick and the doors are easily barred.

His books suffer in the damp. There's a faint scent of mould with each opening and some of the pages are curling. No matter. They'll hold. He himself is also affected by the conditions; he bundles himself in his warmest robe before going downstairs. The cold doesn't bother him, but it makes his fingers clumsy and causes unnecessary difficulty in page turning.

Across the room, his guard sneezes.

"You'll do all your Tranquility research under watch," the Inquisitor had said. Her voice had been firm, as if there was a chance he'd refuse.

The shift changes every day. Usually it's one of the soldiers.

The letter is, in fact, a Q. He moves onto the rest of the word, logic dictating the next symbol is likely a U. There are 314 pages in this volume, and all of the text is obscured through varying levels of degradation. It's of no consequence. He's in no rush.

\- - -

One day, the Iron Bull descends the stairs.

"Me and my boys were betting against some of the guardsmen last night. I lost a round and ended up with a shift," he explains, though Dorian hadn't asked.

He continues working, even while the Iron Bull examines his notes. To better guard him, perhaps, or to pass knowledge to his Ben-Hassrath masters. The Inquisitor hasn't interfered with the Bull's activities so far, and to Dorian's knowledge hasn't forbidden him from this, so logic dictates the Bull has permission to tell the Qun - or, at least, that Dorian is not expected to stop him.

Instead, therefore, Dorian opens the books to relevant pages and turns them to face the Bull for his easier perusal. The Bull raises an eyebrow, but doesn't do anything requiring a response.

"It's going well, then?" asks the Iron Bull.

Dorian considers. "The work is progressing. There have been no insurmountable obstacles so far."

The Bull snorts. "Yeah, guess I asked for that. Anything I can help with?"

"I do not believe so," says Dorian. "I do not understand why you would provide assistance."

"I like helping people," says the Iron Bull, leafing through a few of the pages on the table. "You might be a bit creepy with that whole staring, emotionless thing, but you're not so bad."

"But Qunari bind and leash their mages," says Dorian. "You do not find me safer like this?"

The Iron Bull puts down the papers. "Okay,  look, I'm not going to lie, I think this is a bad idea. It's way too risky, and that's just before the rest of Thedas finds out. But it's not my call to make. So if we're doing this, I just want to make sure it goes off without getting us ass-deep in demons." He shrugs. "Plus, it sounds like you got a raw deal. I wouldn't mind doing something about that."

He moves round the table, eyes landing on a discarded scrap of parchment detailing Dorian's notes on the White Chantry version of the Tranquility ritual. The page is filled with the swooping letters and curling tops he first started favouring at the age of nine, styled after his father's correspondence. Dorian's handwriting remains a curious remnant of his old self. A feat of muscle memory, perhaps. It takes up more space than a plainer style might, but it's more inefficient overruling his hands at every turn than using a few extra sheets of parchment.

"Fancy writing," says the Bull, but a response appears to be unnecessary. There is silence, for a good while, as Dorian works and the Bull reads.

Then: "What sort of person were you?" the Bull asks.

"I'm sorry. Could you be more specific?" says Dorian.

The Bull scratches his chin. "You know. Your personality, that sort of thing. What did you like?"

"I liked reading. I liked fashion. I liked dressing up," says Dorian. "I liked magic." Perhaps it wouldn't have occurred to him to say, before. Sensing the Fade around him and pulling it into threads of shape and power - it'd been natural. Saying he liked magic would have been akin to saying he liked seeing, or hearing, or any of his other senses. It went without saying.

But now he doesn't have magic, just memories that it was good.

"Demons?" asks the Bull, tone deceptively mild. Perhaps he hasn't realised he doesn't have to be diplomatic for Dorian to answer his questions, or perhaps the habit's too ingrained.

"No."

"Fair enough," says the Bull, and his expression relaxes. "So, reading, fashion, magic - what else?"

Dorian considers. "I liked wine. I enjoyed sex a lot. Sometimes orgies. I would have found you very desirable."

The Bull almost chokes on a cough.

"That's.... huh," he says, thumping his chest on a splutter. The Bull's hand is as solid as the rest of him, and comes down with a smack.

"Sorry," he says. "Okay, that's got to be the weirdest way anyone's ever flirted with me."

"I was not flirting," says Dorian.

"Yeah, yeah, I know," says the Bull. "Besides, it's off the table. I've got this thing about only sleeping with people who want to be there, and if I'm getting this right, you can't really want anything right now."

"Yes," says Dorian.

"But hey," says the Bull, a smile at the corner of his mouth, "a smart, well-dressed guy who likes wine and sex? When you get your head back, get yourself to the tavern sometime. I'll buy him a drink."

It would be good if the Bull comes back, Dorian decides after he leaves. He's come to believe equally that the Iron Bull will help him and the Iron Bull will kill him, depending on circumstances. It makes him quite the perfect guard.

\- - -

One day, through the grills in the top of the wall, he hears the clanking of the Skyhold gate and the clopping of several sets of hooves. Likely the Inquisitor and her party, then. He files the knowledge away as something currently unimportant, but possibly necessary if he needs her.

The Bull does not come to the dungeon, but the guard who replaces him is adequate.

\- - -

The guard who replaced the Bull is also a gossip, Dorian learns, when a female guard arrives to take over his shift. The trait makes him marginally less suited to his duties, but is unlikely to be a problem. He has no practical experimentation planned for today. The books are highly unlikely to present a danger.

"When're you stuck here till?" the male guard asks the woman.

"Dinner bell. Want to grab a drink after that?"

"Thought the Lieutenant told that Iron Bull we'd be training with the Chargers tonight?" he says.

She frowns. "Is that still on? Thought their last mission went pear-shaped."

"What? They took down a load of Vints."

"Yeah, but..." she wrinkles her nose. "Didn't Iron Bull get kicked out of the Qun or something?"

The man scoffs. "If he did, maybe we'll all go drinking. I'd want Orlesian champagne, if I got kicked out of the Qun."

The guards laugh. The man leaves, and Dorian doesn't follow.

\- - -

Two days pass, before Dorian passes the Bull on his way through the library. He's staring out of the window down at the courtyard.

"Good place to get a view of how the Chargers train without me looming," he says, without turning round. Dorian is the only one behind him. Either the Bull has learnt the signs of his presence - his footsteps, perhaps, since he no longer wears scent - or the statement is a general one. "Should probably teach them to look up sometime, though."

Dorian didn't ask for the explanation. He also doesn't ask why the Bull has chosen to watch from the library, rather than one of the three places he can think of which would offer a better view. He does notice that the Bull's location is not the only abnormal point. His posture is stiffer, his expression fixed. Atypical mannerisms: likely a result of his unusual rebellion against the Qun.

There's no emotion in it. He feels no fellow sadness, no pity at the Bull's too-straight form. He could continue tidying the library while the Bull stands rigid by the railings.

Dorian doesn't need comfort, but he recognises the need in others. And the Bull is conducive to his work. His current state is not optimal.

The Bull's eye widens when Dorian comes to stand next to him. The first time he's seen the Bull startle, he notes somewhere, and instantly puts it out of mind.

"You appear to be in distress," he explains. "Do you require assistance?"

The Bull laughs, at that, though he cuts it off quickly. "No," he says. "No, I'm - not good, but I'll be alright." Then, after a look at Dorian's face: "I don't require assistance."

Logically, this is unlikely, as the Bull is clearly unable to shake off the change in his conditions alone. Perhaps he meant assistance would not be useful, or that Dorian's assistance would not be useful. Dorian suspects the Bull simply means he doesn't want assistance, and that's where he's forced to leave his thoughts.

The Bull is still not in an optimal state, and thus Dorian's conclusion isn't optimal either. But he doesn't understand why the Bull can't just realise grieving is futile, why he doesn't enjoy the change like the guardsmen said he would, what he needs to be fixed. The ritual sharpened his mind in most ways, even as it stole his magic, but this? This is knowledge he used to have, and he needs, but is barred to him.

He turns and walks away from the Bull, in the absence of other options. It's inefficient.

He's not thought of his post Ritual self as inefficient before.

\- - -

In the end, it's not himself, or Cole, or even the Inquisitor who solves his Tranquility, but Seeker Pentaghast who literally places the cure in his hands after striding down the dungeon stairs and startling the guard. The man looks grateful for his immediate dismissal.

She crosses over to Dorian and holds out an old, well-bound book. "Take it," she says. "It's the Book of Secrets. The Seekers' journal." She looks him in the eyes. "There's a cure in there for Tranquility. It should have everything you need."

"I will use it," he says, and "Thank you," because he's learned it's expected.

Seeker Pentaghast nods, once, and then seems to run out of anything more to say in the face of Dorian's infinite patience. She takes two steps to the exit, then turns back.

"I always thought the Rite was necessary. But it was wrong. The Seekers' wrong," she says, with a twisted smile. "And so it falls to me to correct it."

\- - -

"I had almost as many people volunteer to be here as beg to get out of it," the Inquisitor tells him, as they walk to the ritual room. "Cole offered. And Cullen, but..." She purses her lips. "I don't think it's a good idea to have him warding off demons again. A couple of soldiers offered, too. Ser Kerald, usually on gate duty? I think his sister's a Tranquil."

She shakes her head when they turn a corner. "I thought we'd have our hands full with Tranquils wanting it lifted once the rumours got out, but I might've been wrong." They slow down as they approach the door; he matches her footsteps and comes to a halt with her just outside the room. She turns to him. "I asked Helisma, she thinks she's better off this way."

"There are advantages," Dorian volunteers, having weighed them carefully.

The Inquisitor shrugs. "And I guess it's different for the mages that chose it. I don't understand it, but I don't plan on forcing anyone." She puts her hand on the doorknob and smiles at him. "Anyway, let's see how you work out first, shall we?"

Inside, he finds the people the Inquisitor's judged worthy of involvement. There's Solas and Vivienne, who've been persuaded to co-operate in their respective spirit summonings and laying protections. Cassandra is ready with her sword, and the Bull ready with his maul. The Inquisitor's knives are visible at her sides.

The weapons seem secondary when he walks in and catches Cassandra's firm nod; the Inquisitor's smile; the Bull's one-eyed gaze. He places the book on the lectern prepared for him, and begins.

\- - -

There's that familiar warmth jolting his body, colours growing brighter again. It's like waking from a dream. He's frozen for a second, waiting for it to all drain away again.

Another moment. Then another. His guards are silent.

His heart keeps pumping and the thrum in his chest doesn't slip away.

He looks up and catches the eye of the Bull.

"Good to see you," the Bull says, with a soft smile.

Fortunately, Dorian is the child of an ancient Tevinter house and was raised to control himself accordingly. Fortunately, he's spent months as an automaton stripped of emotion, and his face muscles are stiff.  Fortunate, because as the weight of feeling wells up in him, he still manages to look at Bull and blink back only the slightest hint of wetness.

"Well," he says, and his throat bobs, and he tries again. "Well, it looks like you all get to look forward to the pleasure of my company."

The Inquisitor finally steps forward and grips his hand to pull him up. If his voices cracks on the "Thank you", she's far too nice to mention it.

\- - -

If there's something to be said for regaining his memories with emotions intact, it's that he can fully appreciate the excruciating awkwardness of the conversation afterwards is. Somewhat unavoidable, he supposes, as the Inquisitor's War Council sling questions at him. Small talk's tricky when the main topic is, "So, I hear you've recently been living as a blank-faced simpleton?"

The Inquisitor thanks him as he leaves. _Thanks_ him, for all the hard work he's done over the past few months. Now he's properly able to appreciate it.

"Not that I don't appreciate gratitude," he says, scrambling while he tries to fix a smile in place, "but I think I owe rather more on my side than a few scrolls worth of research and some outdated intelligence. I -" and he drops the smile, because the least he can do is honesty - "I don't think I can ever repay you for this."

She tells him he doesn't need to. Because this isn't Tevinter, where things are settled ruthlessly but comfortably tit-for-tat. Say what you like about it, but at least he wouldn't have this debt looming over him like an axe of indefinite size. He doesn't have power or connections. He doesn't even have money. He's got his mind and his magic, and he never imagined a situation where they might not be enough.

He doesn't regret getting cured, not for a second. But it does feel an awful lot like dangling by a thread over a pit of bears.

He's all too aware of the way his hands shake when he makes his goodbyes. He stuffs them into his pockets as he walks back through the corridor. As a scary Tevinter mage, he was probably right not to immediately arm himself when his mind was returned, but he could do with asking the Inquisitor for a spare staff sometime. Something to grip. Otherwise, he's going to end up with nail marks all over his palms.

Perhaps he can requisition something in veridium. Something shiny, and he's bound to feel himself again.

\- - -

Seeker Pentaghast - Cassandra, perhaps, but he's not sure where "restoring your mind while being ready to kill you" places someone, socially - is leaning on the wall outside, ready to accost him.

He nods and attempts to pass by her, but she falls into step alongside him. It's like he's accidentally acquired his own honour guard.

"How are you feeling?" she asks, shooting a narrow-eyed look at a couple of whispering soldiers.

"Oh, you know, can't complain!" he says, chiseling his grin right into his face where he thinks it might be looking a little more manic than rogueish. They pass into the main hall. "Which is a shame, really. You'll find I'm extremely good at complaining."

"Hmm," she says, and stops. She looks him straight in the eye, and he's reminded of some of his fiercer childhood nannies. Domina Magna, wherever she was enjoying her nineties, was probably the reason Corypheus hadn't yet dared march on Tevinter.

But her stare is considering, rather than intimidating. "I remember how I felt, after my Vigil," she says. "Elated, but... unsteady. The Seekers have a set of meditations for restoring mental balance. If you like, I could teach them to you tonight."

"That's..." and now he's the one staring. "That's a generous offer. Why?"

Cassandra raises an eyebrow. "Why not?"

Maybe it would help, he thinks, to offload some of this tension. Maybe that's why he can't say yes. Because the only thing he can imagine that's worse than feeling on the very edge of his control is letting go of it, in front of someone - a good person, the Seeker, he's sure, but she seems to think she knows him because she spent time with a soulless mockery of him.

Besides, he never has been drawn to the things that are good for him.

"Another time, perhaps," he says, taking a polite half-step away. "I'm afraid I have plans for this evening."

\- - -

As it happens, his evening is a perfectly fantastic 'fuck you' to his father, his Tranquility, and possibly his life in general.

There's alcohol. A lot of alcohol. The first drink is bad alcohol, because he's buying, but it's followed by better alcohol, because the Inquisitor's buying. There might have been a short stretch when what he was drinking wasn't actually alcohol at all, because she's responsible like that, but then Varric gets in a round and balance is restored. Varric, as he tells the dwarf, is a man of taste. Terrible, terrible taste.

"I like the bubbles," says Cole, appearing from nowhere, and Dorian manages to turn a yelp into a cheer in an impressive feat of auditory sleight of hand. "Are they supposed to make your tongue go numb?"

"My point exactly," says Dorian, and orders him a pint. Cole's probably earned it, after everything. It's on the table for a while, though, and somehow it disappears when the Bull slips into the seat. Dorian hadn't even noticed Cole leave.

"If we put a bell on him," Dorian muses, fingering an empty glass, "do you think ordinary metal would work? Or would we have to use something that can cross the Veil?"

The Bull shakes his head. "You're asking the wrong person."

"True! A better question, then. Now, the past few months have all gone a bit hazy," Dorian lies, because if he keeps disowning it enough maybe everyone else will forget it too, "but do I recall being promised a drink?"

The Bull gives him a long look, which for a second Dorian mistakes for disapproval - how disappointing - until he realises he's being sized up. At that point he leans back in his seat, loose-limbed, and spreads his arms so the Bull can get a better picture.

Whatever conclusion the Bull reaches, a second later he's ducking his head in rueful acknowledgement and offering Dorian a much more promising grin.

"The offer's still good," he says, signalling the barmaid with a wave, while his eyes stay fixed on Dorian. "How about some of the Antivan brandy?"

"Antivan brandy? I wouldn't have pegged you as the type."

"Oh, I'm flexible," says the Bull, and grins. "But you strike me as the kind of guy who has expensive tastes."

"And how would you know that, hm? My recent lifestyle would have made a Chantry brother look indulgent."

The Bull peers at him. "The robes you wore before were silk. You must have picked clothes for practicality, if you cared at all, and still the most practical ones you had were silk."

He goes on. "You've got marks on your fingers where you wore rings, when you could afford them. And if I say Ferelden ale -" he paused, "- you wrinkle your nose. But - oh hey, would you look at that? A _smile_ ," says the Bull, dropping his voice and flashing a smile of his own. "Fereldan ale, then?"

"Hardly," says Dorian, trying to stop his mouth from twitching, and the Bull just raises his eyebrows and asks the barmaid for the brandy.

\- - -

It's not the last bottle that ends up on their table. Surprisingly, it's a true Antivan vintage, to the point where half a bottle in he'd almost swear he can taste the sunshine. He'd expected something Antivan by way of Orlais, Nevarra and possibly Rivain, but he suspects, by the way the barman nods at them, that no-one waters down the Bull's drinks. It makes him feel rather amenable as he listens to stories about bandits and highwaymen, and trades a couple of anecdotes of his own. It's been too long since he's been spoiled.

To his abject horror, his eyes begin to well up at the thought. He disguises it with a cough, pretending to have misjudged a sip of his drink.

Another surprise: the Bull knows how to handle a fine vintage. Dorian had half-expected him to down the glass, but he cradles it like a Duc raised to drink it with lunch and takes sips that are positively restrained.

The restraint holds till round about the time the Chargers arrive and drag him off, but he's shortly replaced by  Varric, again - "So, Sparkler, you play cards in Tevinter?" - and the Inquisitor, with another round, and Blackwall, and Sera, and suddenly everyone's talking and it's a party. Well, apart from Blackwall, who mainly grunts at him. Satisfied grunts, though, Dorian hopes. Perhaps all the long sentences got trapped behind that great big beard.

The best thing, the absolute best thing is that Sera's finally talking to him, and every word is pure gold if delivered straight from the arse of a miner. He tells her that, and she - well, he's pretty sure she never actually buys a drink, but she does produce a bottle from somewhere, and by the end he can't taste anything at all.

He's not quite sure when it cracks. Maybe when she gets up to, to, to stick it to someone. He can't remember who, but she was very enthusiastic about it. And she leaves, and he looks up, and everyone's at the bar, and he. He feels very...

Very alone, all of  sudden.

 _Shit_.

He's never been a weepy drunk. Never. Not in public. And he's. He'll have to say goodbye, if he leaves, won't he? Or maybe he can stagger out the back door.

A weight comes down on his shoulder. "If you're going to puke, best to head out,"  rumbles a voice behind him, and Dorian looks blearily up at the Bull's face. The Bull takes it as permission, and drops into the seat next to him. "You don't want to know what the barmaids do to the messy ones."

It's a pretext, at least, and. Well. He can't say it's a bad idea. He stares at the door, trying to calculate a path through what seems to be twice as many chairs as he remembers.

"Here you go, big guy," says the Bull, and it turns out he can at least put the situation and the Bull's outstretched arm together and come up with _hang on_.  The Bull calls something out as they leave, and he hears laughter, but he doesn't think it's the cruel sort. He might be a little confused on the difference between up and down at this point, but he'd be able to detect a scoffing noise from two paces if he were face down in a gutter. The benefits of a Tevinter education.

As it turns out, the Bull's moving him outside is entirely prescient, but the man's a good sport about propping him up while he heaves up most of an evening.

"I've seen it before," says the Bull, as Dorian coughs, tries to move off the wall he's leaning against, and thinks better of it. "Ex-slaves, mostly, or the Tal-Vashoth. They spend so long restraining themselves that they haven't learned where to stop by the time they get a taste."

"I assure you, this is more than my first taste," says Dorian, trying to sound waspish while fighting a vain struggle to stay upright.

He's grinning, the bastard. "Well, maybe it'll come back to you."

"You know what they say. Practice makes perfect."

"Can't argue with that," says the Bull, "but when I was practicing how to fight, I didn't start out by leaping headfirst into a mob. I'm just saying, maybe you can work up to drinking the entire bar next month instead."

"It'll take that long to restock, at least," he says, and pulls himself up straighter. The air's cool where the sweat's still drying on his arms, and he fancies he's pulling off a sort of elegantly drooped slouch, even if poise remains beyond him.

The night air's not sobering him up, completely, though, because otherwise he's got no excuse for the, "It used to be different" that spills out of his mouth.

"Different?" says the Bull, and Dorian's not fooled by that casual tone for an instant, but it seems the leash is off now.

"Nights like this," he says, and sighs, "I used to do this sort of thing a lot, before - well, you know. I never thought twice about it. In fact, one might say not thinking was rather the point. And now look at me." He gestures, and smiles mirthlessly down at his shoes. "I've become quite the bore."

He means it half as a joke, but as soon as he's said he's aware of the noise coming through the wall, and the light spilling across the doorframe across from them.

"You should go back in," he says, and ignores the wave of emotion that wells up at the thought. Maker, he's drunk and tired, not _twelve_. "I'm sure there's a flagon calling your name."

The Bull shakes his head. "Nah, I'm good. Could use some fresh air," he lies, but it's a kind lie. Dorian can't quite find it in himself to reject it.

Ah. Well, at least he knows he's back, when he's getting attached for all the wrong reasons.

"They're - they're good people," he blurts out.

The Bull, bless him, doesn't ask who he's talking about. "Most of them, yeah," he says.

"I'm not sure I am," says Dorian,  and looks away from the Bull's steady gaze. "It's been quite a while since I've had to be."

"Someone told me practice makes perfect," says the Bull.

"Ha. Yes," says Dorian. Then, "Do you know, Cassandra offered to train me this evening? Some sort of meditation, for _mental balance_."

"Doesn't sound like a bad idea," says the Bull. "The Qun encourages that sort of thing. It helps, in tough times."

And he marks that, to ask about - the Bull's tough times - but he's not quite ready to be distracted yet. "But why offer? We're barely acquaintances, if you exclude the time I had all my thoughts and emotions sucked out. Personally, I'm trying to."

"Maybe she wants to get to know you," says the Bull. "Sounded like a lot of people wanted to get to know you earlier."

"I hope they liked what they saw," Dorian says.

"I've seen worse introductions. Stitches was sick for a week the first time the Chargers took him out," says the Bull. "You know why I'm out here?"

The change of subject hits Dorian harder than if he hadn't done his best to drown his brain earlier. "No?" he manages.

"Because a while back, this guy came over to check on me when I was going through some rough crap," says the Bull. His eye is focused on Dorian's. "Don't think he even knew why, but he did. Now, are you still the guy who'd do that?"

Dorian blinks. "I." He lets out a breath. "I think I'd like to be."

"Then you'll do fine," says the Bull, and maybe he can read something in Dorian's face, because the next thing Dorian knows he's got an arm draped over the Bull's back - and it's a crying shame he's in no real state to appreciate it - and he's being helped back to his room.

\- - -

The next evening, he's standing outside Cassandra's door, a little paler but thankfully upright.

"I warn you, I'm a terrible student," he says when she opens it. It's a lie, but he feels he owes her some sort of warning.

She smiles. "And truly, I am no teacher," she says, and opens the door wider. "But I don't back down from a challenge."

\- - -

Perhaps being made Tranquil has damaged his mind permanently, because it doesn't hit him right away. Not even when Cassandra - and it is Cassandra, or at least she didn't bring out her sword when he tested it - invites him back another time for the second set of meditations. His legs are knots when they finally stand up and he massages them pointedly, but he can't deny his head feels looser.

It also doesn't hit him when he comes across Cullen in the courtyard and a stray comment leads to a game of chess. Nor when he receives a summons - scented with crystal grace, his mother's favourite - and is received on a balcony by Vivienne, lit in cold sunshine.

"It's remarkable, how you've kept your mind," she says over tea.

His fists clench, and he reminds himself that he was taught to use his tongue to fight, and this is exactly the sort of thing he used to excel at, and also that Cassandra says he's supposed to think of calm seas when his breathing speeds up.

"Among all these southerners? I know, it's an achievement," he says instead, because what he's always found really puts him at ease is sarcastic retorts.

She smiles. "Quite."

The cup trembles in his hand, and he looks down at the ripples on the brown surface. Calm seas, he thinks.

"I had a friend who failed his Harrowing," she says, quite frankly, leaving him groping for a segue. "Or so they say. He wasn't always wise with his words, but no-one thought him foolish enough to deal with demons. I suppose that's why we trust in Templars to make the decision."

She sips her drink.

"As head enchanter, I found most foolishness could be corrected through proper teaching. Don't you agree?" She doesn't wait for an answer. "But there isn't much we're required to teach to the Tranquil."

She flicks her gaze down to where his fingers are white knuckled on his cup.

"They prefer glassware in Tevinter, do they not?" she says. "The thing about chinaware, my dear, is it requires a strong grip. It slips all too easily." She smiles again, but it's softer. "But I dare say you've quite got the hang of it."

\- - -

It also doesn't hit him the first time he uses his magic in battle again. Admittedly, he's distracted. The flame rips through the Fade like the whole world's just been waiting to spark under his fingertips, and he's so lost in the rush, in the light under his skin, that he completely misses the corpse hand on his shoulder till an arrow hits it.

The hand, not his shoulder; he's not sure if the corpse is more surprised or him. Another arrow pierces it in the head during the second he's deliberating.

"Kept that dead slime off your fancy dress, you owe me!" yells Sera, and keeps the rest off his bag till he can send a whole group up with a flare. He puts in some extra bangs, just for her.

"Now that's more like it!" shouts the Bull, and catches two on his axe.

\- - -

He might have started to realise it in the tavern afterwards, perhaps.

He buys Sera a drink, which is graciously accepted, and turns down her offer, saying he was the one who owed her. He thinks he might take her up on it again one day, but maybe he'll save it for when they take down Corypheus.

Sera's not the only one he owes a drink, he knows, so he makes sure to place a tankard of the bar's better brew in front of the Bull.

"I can't promise I've guessed your drink order that well," he starts -

"Any old piss!" yells Krem from the Chargers'  table, to applause, which might be why the Bull follows Dorian back to his table.

"He's not wrong," says the Bull, after a second, and takes a drink. "Ah, that's the stuff."

"Why would we need to fight together, as long as we know each other's drink orders?"

"I could go for both," says the Bull. "Those fireballs today? Showy, but you got them on target. Nice work."

"And you, with - ah, the weapon swinging."

The Bull grins. "I get a lot of compliments on my weapon."

And Dorian groans, because it's practically obligatory, but he can't quite hide his smile. Perhaps it's for the best.

"So," says the Bull, "You going to let me get you an ale this time, or are we pretending the brandy's what you'd really like?"

"You _have_ been watching me," says Dorian.

The Bull shrugs. " I watch everyone," he says, and leans forward. "So maybe I know you better than you think."

Dorian - Dorian remembers how this goes. He places an elbow on the table, mirroring the Bull's position, and lets his lips curve up behind the rim of his glass. "Oh? Well, tell me," he says, turning his smile truly wicked, "do you know me as well as you'd _like_?"

_\- - -_

He's used to rushing his affairs: catching a well-timed glance, raced fumblings in a storage room or cellar, then back into civil company in five minutes. This isn't the same hurry. He's always managed to keep things contained to the point where most of his partners kept their clothes on. This act with Bull - there's something raw about it. Desperate. Bull starts unbuckling his bracer, and he just wants the damn thing ripped off.

He reaches up, grabs the back of Bull's neck, pulls him down into a frantic, hot-mouthed kiss. He nips at Bull's lip - half an accident, half something bubbled up from the need inside - and presses a thigh between the Bull's. His nails catch at Bull's back. He's pressed up against every inch of him and it's not enough, it's _not enough_.

He moans - can't stop himself - but it sounds high and needy.

That's when the warm weight of Bull's hands detach from his waist and land on his shoulders.

"Hey," says the Bull. His single-eyed gaze is intent on Dorian's face, and Dorian awards himself a point for glaring right back. "You doing okay there?"

"Just fine, until you stopped," Dorian snaps. The Bull's broken the rhythm. That tension from before has been bottled back up and he's not quite sure what will happen they don't get back to it soon.

Or - or if the Bull wants to call this off. He can handle that. He can square his shoulders and crack a smile like any old failed affair, and walk out without letting Bull keep an ounce of his dignity. He'll have to go back to the tavern, probably, find some guardsman who'll go along with it, or go back to his room until the fizzing under his skin goes away.

He waits between offbeats, wondering if he shouldn't just break this now while he's ready.

"You mind if I try something?" asks Bull.

Dorian narrows his eyes, but the Bull just stands there, _not touching_ , poised with an eyebrow raised like he could wait all day.

"Alright, yes, go on," says Dorian.

The Bull crosses the room, leaving Dorian feeling fidgety and lost in what feels far too wide a space for a bedroom corner. It's the hole in the roof, maybe, the air coming in and chilling his skin where Bull's hands aren't there to keep it warm.

The Bull pulls out something and brings it over. There's a narrow strip of black linen, held with surprising delicacy between his hands. Those hands raise the cloth up to Dorian's eye level, and it's only when Dorian looks up to see the Bull's raised eyebrow that he realises he's waiting for another confirmation.

"I said yes," says Dorian.

"Alright," says the Bull, and places it across his eyes and wraps it around. The tips of his fingers press lightly against the back of Dorian's head as he ties it off, and it takes Dorian a second to realise he's taking care not to catch Dorian's hair in the knot.

When his vision is completely blocked off, he hears Bull's voice rumble over him.

"Still doing okay there?"

Dorian's got his mouth open to make a snide remark, but stops as he registers the tone of the Bull's voice.

He restrains himself to, "As long as you had more planned than this."

The Bull chuckles. "Oh, believe me, I've got plans." His voice drops again. "One more thing, though. If it gets too much, say katoh and I'll take it off. Whatever we're doing. Do you understand?"

"Maker, yes," says Dorian.

He hears the Bull's pleased rumble, then he flinches at the weight of a hand on his shoulder. He's immediately irritated with himself, but the Bull strokes his arm like a startled horse.

He's already lost most of the urgency with all the confusion, he realises with surprise, and he's half-grateful and half-ready to kick things back into gear. He reaches out, but the Bull catches his arm. His grip is loose, but the message is clear.

He can't see, he can't touch - there are only two ways out. Either he rips the blindfold off and storms out, or - or he waits. Sees where this is going.

He lets his arm go limp in the Bull's hand, and he's rewarded with the other hand slipping deliciously down his side, and the Bull purring, "Oh, I knew you'd be good," in his ear.

There's still a space for him, he realises, as he's lowered onto rough cotton sheets, somewhere between feeling everything and feeling nothing at all.

\- - -

That's not when it hits him, though. That comes when he's rooting through a chest for a spare robe pin and his fingers close on an old piece of parchment. It's folded into four exact quarters and filed behind a set of books, packed away by someone who organised with inhuman precision.

Dorian takes in a breath for ten long seconds, like Cassandra taught him, then counts backwards from five, like the Bull taught him, before he opens the letter from his father to the Inquisitor.

It's not the first time he's read it, of course, but it's different reading it now. His father's polite request for his son, in his father's own slanted handwriting. He merited the personal touch, then, rather than a secretary.

The letter sounds very reasonable. And yet he's still here, because the Inquisition banded together to support him.

He's not alone here.

\- - -

"I realised I never thanked you," says Dorian, later, when he corners the Inquisitor in the library.

The Inquisitor raises an eyebrow. "You did, don't you remember? After the Council meeting."

"No, I mean - " Dorian takes a breath. "With my father. You defended me. I -" He meets her eyes. "You didn't have to, and I don't think I'd be here if you hadn't."

"Dorian -" she starts, but he waves a hand.

"Don't worry, I wasn't going to get carried away. I've been reliably informed I ought to avoid overly emotional situations, and it's an excuse I plan to use for the next few decades," he says, though he can't help a smile when he pictures Cassandra's stern words of caution. "I just wanted to say - you've been a good friend to me," he says. "One of my first, I think."

"From what I hear around Skyhold, you've been collecting them," says the Inquisitor, and he has to turn his head away from her smile.

"Well, more fool them, then," he says. "Getting taken in by my placid alter-ego."

"He did hold his liquor better..." she says.

 "Lies and scandal. Meet me at the bar tomorrow and I'll prove it." The Bull's promised to command his attention later, and even the Inquisitor can't compete with an offer like that. "No, wait, day after." He remembers a chess game with Cullen. "Damn, Wednesday then. If you're not too busy saving the world?"

"For Mr Popular? It can wait," she says.

 "I'm sure I don't know what I do to earn the attention," he says, and tries not to wince when it comes out sounding off. "Other than let them bask in my light, I suppose."

The Inquisitor laughs. "If there's one thing I'm learning, it's that you don't earn attention. People give you it whether you like it or not, _then_ you run around trying to be worthy. At least no-one's tried to put you in charge of a Chantry wing yet."

"And that, you'll find, is the true tragedy of this piece."

But it bears thinking about, he finds. A lot of people have been saying things worth thinking about. Perhaps, perhaps it's time to re-evaluate his conclusions.

\- - -

"What're you thinking, big guy?" says the Bull later, pushing him higher on the wall, a leg between Dorian's thighs.

"How," says Dorian, and leans down to find he's just within kissing distance, "to prove myself," he leans in again, " _eminently_ worthy," he slides his lips down to just behind the Bull's ear, "of your attentions."

"Hmm," says the Bull, and lets him slip down before pinning him deliciously again. "You want some help with that?"

"Please," says Dorian, and opens himself up to possibilities.

 

 


End file.
